Classic Poem

In this faint age, when British growth is missing ,
And dapper beaux want stilts to climb to kissing ;
Ill dares an author hope your pardon granted,
Who gives a man, more woman , than he wanted .
But I, to comfort him, have been declaring,
You can forgive all sins, you take your share in.
Let me look round—aye—'tis my firm persuasion ,
Your calls , that way, outgo your best occasion .

 Two wives! what then—suppose 'em two and twenty ,
Spendthrifts shou'd nev. frown , on other's plenty .
And pray, what right have you, to rail at changing,
Who still, quit old , for new —and live, for ranging?
Just warm one's hopes , to glowing expectation ,
Then, baulk one—in the nick , of provocation ;

Here's, your first spouse, good reverend, Mrs, Drury !
By turns, the object of your smiles , and fury ,
Has, for an age, been yours , in form, and fashion,
Lull'd every care, to sleep —sooth'd every passion;
Yet, almost in her view , you quite renounce her,
For a huge, rampant, Covent-Garden bouncer!
Fie, fie, 'tis E NGLISH policy —it savours
Of want of Wit , not to divide your favours.
Now here , now there , might half disguise the treason,
Or, a wise wife wou'd WINK —who found such reason .
But, to forget entirely, while you wander ,
Who claims; at home , the rights , you loosely squander ,
O'erturns a matron's peace, however stable,
And proves, (if not ungenerous ) you're unable .

 Well! after all, when we no longer please ye ,
'Tis want of sense , and policy , to teize ye.
Time may befriend our hopes —and, till that blessing
Comes, in its turn, once more, to our possessing;
Grant us one modest prayer —and, from that minute,
If e'er we murmur , say,—the W OMAN'S in it:
Give us your evenings only, when we claim ye,
Lie , where you please, all night —we 'll never blame ye.